Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles below Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lighted snow.

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Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

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Even cities have their graves!

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And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters

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You would attain to the divine perfection.

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Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.

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Is this is a dream? O, if it be a dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!

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Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.

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And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.

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He had mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic mittens made of deer-skin; When upon his hands he wore them, He could smite the rocks asunder, He could grind them into powder.

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The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable.

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Then followed that beautiful season... Summer.... Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

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Welcome, Disappointment! Thy hand is cold and hard, but it is the hand of a friend. Thy voice is stern and harsh, but it is the voice of a friend. Oh, there is something sublime in calm endurance, something sublime in the resolute, fixed purpose of suffering without complaining, which makes disappointment oftentimes better than success!

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Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

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By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven.

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Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.

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The shadows of the mind are like those of the body. In the morning of life they all lie behind us; at noon we trample them under foot; and in the evening they stretch long, broad, and deepening before us.

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The soul never grows old.

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They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

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Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

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